


Sic Semper Tyrannis

by Vexfulfolly



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Ben Hargreeves Needs A Hug, But Ben loses his shit, Dead Klaus Hargreeves, Gen, Panic Attacks, Protective Klaus Hargreeves, The Horrors, Vomiting, but it’s passively mentioned, ghost Klaus au, it’s not straight up mentioned, vague self harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:13:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23717266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vexfulfolly/pseuds/Vexfulfolly
Summary: With age came strong emotions and sibling rivalries, it brought training and school, and abilities. Broken floorboards turned into bones, song lyrics into screams, and recklessness into habit. While each of the children exhibited their powers in some form or another, Number Four seemed to be the exception. Eight years of age and he hadn’t exhibited any sort of ability. He was a kind boy, nothing if but dramatic, but always tried his best. He wasn’t good enough.He died later that year, too; a shame, it really was.A ghost Klaus au, and a handful of stories about it.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 35
Kudos: 240





	1. Of Weddings and Windows

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Sound of an old House](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22960288) by [potato4power](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potato4power/pseuds/potato4power). 



> I don’t intend on having many chapters for this, unless people have specific requests. I’ve always wondered what the dynamic would be like if it was Klaus that was dead, and not Ben. Though this is more for future chapters, I borrowed a bit from the comics, and used that wonderful thing called creative license.

When they were kids, just wee little things really, there were seven of them. All still numbers, of course, but they were all there. Each one of them were special in their own right, powers just budding or well past manifesting. 

  
Number One was a well mannered boy, who took great care in corralling his fellow siblings. He was a rule follower and their leader, and was everything an older brother should be. He would sometimes throw temper-tantrums and break the floor.

  
Number Two was a bouncing baby, but one with many worries. He cared deeply about his family, often trying to protect them from the smallest of things. Mother said he was dropped on his head, which made him so nurturing. It also gave him his stutter; he’d sometimes be so embarrassed he wouldn’t breathe for hours.

  
Number Three was a gleeful little girl, squealing and running alongside her brothers. If there was anyone that could keep up with the first two siblings, it would be her. She was the first of two sisters, instantly connecting her with the latter. If whatever she ventured for wasn’t perfect she would force it to be.

  
Number Four was a peculiar boy, characterized by bouts of hypersensitivity and apathy. He tended to care too much and feel too deeply--sobbing over the death of the bugs One would step on-- while having little regard for his own health--smiling with gapped teeth from running into walls, or being perpetually covered in bandaids. He talked to the open air often, seemingly very attached to his imaginary friends. 

  
Number Five was a curious child. He couldn’t refrain from asking even the most prying and inappropriate of questions, never happy with not knowing. He would crawl to the roof because he couldn’t stand not seeing what was beyond the property’s walls. He had a penchant for disappearing, that boy: always on the move.

  
Number Six was bookish and quiet, with a temperament only the most precious of children had. He played with Four the most, always giggling at the boy’s latest antic, or somehow getting lost in the daydreams his novels gave him. He had a poor constitution, that one, and was often wrought by bouts of nausea. 

  
Number Seven was a beautiful young lady, attached to Three on one hip and Five on the other. She never went looking for trouble, but was often a beaming accomplice to Five’s. She and Three often snickered to themselves about the boys, or sang loudly (and out of tune) to the radio. If her notes were sometimes too forceful, the children were none the wiser. 

Everything was lovely in the Hargreeves household, until the children started to age. With age came strong emotions and sibling rivalries, it brought training and school, and abilities. Broken floorboards turned into bones, song lyrics into screams, and recklessness into habit. While each of the children exhibited their powers in some form or another, Number Four seemed to be the exception. Eight years of age and he hadn’t exhibited any sort of ability. He was a kind boy, nothing if but dramatic, but always tried his best. He wasn’t good enough. He died later that year, too; a shame, it really was. His siblings were all terribly sad afterwards, so sad that they refused to train for an entire week. Number Six didn’t talk for a month. To this day, no one really remembers what happened to him--only that it was an unfortunate accident. The halls suddenly seemed emptier without his laughter echoing through them, they were less bright. No one was allowed to talk about Number Four, lest they set off Number Six. 

The years passed. The kids grew until they weren’t quite kids anymore. 

They found out that Five was Four’s twin, a quaint four minutes between the two. 

They got names too, picked out by Mom with the greatest of care. Each name was hand printed on the inside of an envelope, given to them on their birthday. Most everyone tore them open, eager to see their name: their name. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was joy in the house. Five listened to each sibling try out their new names. “Diego?” “Allison!” “Luther!” “Vanya.”

  
“Hey, Six, what did you get?” 

  
“Benjamin.”

  
And for some reason, it just felt right. Three syllables. A gentle, yet proud name that sounded like it belonged to royalty. It had the potential for a million and one nicknames, something Four would have liked. 

  
“What’s your name, Five?”

  
Unlike his brothers and sisters, Five didn’t open his envelope. He clutched it so tightly in his calloused hands that they shook under the force. He stared at the wrinkled outside as if he could see through the page. 

  
“Uh, Five?”

  
In an instant, Five popped from the center of the living room to the fireplace. Before anyone could breathe a word about it, he dropped the paper into the fire and jumped away. The stunned silence that everyone was left in seemed to shatter the rosy mood. No one dared bother Five for the rest of the day. A few tears escaped ash colored eyes as his heart felt like it was imploding. _If Four, his real brother didn’t get a name, he shouldn’t get one either._

Hargreaves thought the death of Four damaged Six (because he was always a Number, never a name), and told the children to not feed into his antics. They were fifteen at the time. “Six’s attention seeking delusions of Number Four’s livelihood threaten the cohesion and readiness of the academy! His behavior is unacceptable, and will not be tolerated,” Hargreaves announced at breakfast one morning. The breakfast table, though always quiet, seemed somehow devoid of all sound. Herr Karlson didn’t drone in the background, nor did a single heart beat, or child dare to breathe. 

  
“If you cared, you would’ve figured out a way to bring him back,” Ben said certainly. The steel in his tone and the way he eyed their father spoke volumes of the anger he was restraining. “He told me what you did. It’s your fault he’s dead.”

  
“I refuse to be blamed by a child for the follies of a disappointment! You are excused from breakfast, Number Six, and I suggest you prepare for individual training afterwards: it is apparent that your ability to follow orders has been improperly taught.”

  
“He always said you were evil, but I never believed him.”

  
Ben went to his room as instructed. He disappeared for two weeks. When he returned there was a hard edge about him that warded off even Five, he was suddenly too prickly to bare. Their birthday came soon after— the big sixteen!— and he was nowhere to be found. His room was barren and there were quite a few novels and music players missing from the library. 

  
Ben was gone. 

  
Diego never told anyone, but he found a scrap of paper in his room, written in handwriting he vaguely remembered, saying _I’ve got your Six_. It was an ironic little play on words that told him his brother would be okay. The family saw so very little of Ben from that point on, the only real time they saw him being Allison’s wedding and baby shower. 

They were grown by then, they were in their early twenties. Fueled by alcohol and accompanied by the rest of the family (sans Five) in the veranda of her California mansion, Allison dared ask Ben why he left all those years ago. He gave a short laugh— a choked little thing— and a lopsided grin. 

  
“That house was too big and too old for all the ghosts it had. I couldn’t stand the sounds you’d hear at night. Four used to tell me about them: he’d say who the footsteps belonged to, or who was crying particularly loud that night. I never believed him. When he died and I heard him laughing and running the halls like he used to… I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. Hargreaves just… I couldn’t be in that house a minute longer.” 

  
He didn’t speak with vitriol, but instead with the frustration of a man who’d long lost a piece of himself. Ben didn’t look at a single sibling as he spoke, but they shared glances behind his back. 

  
“Do you… still hear him?” Diego whispered, much to the shock of everyone around him. Allison, or maybe it was Luther, hissed _don’t feed into his sickness, Diego!_

  
“Of course I do,” Ben laughed, the first sound of glee they’d heard in half a decade. He turned over his shoulder, glass of water dangling from his hand. “It’s not like he left. He’s been keeping an eye on us, as I’m sure you know.” 

  
Luther suddenly stood, face red and trembling with disgust. “Don't do that. Don’t lie like this, Ben. You can’t just sit there and try to pull us into your delusions! You couldn’t go ten minutes without mentioning him, despite the fact that he’s been dead twice the time he was ever alive!”

  
“I’m only answering their questions, Luth—“

  
“You need attention don’t you? Just like he did—“

  
The words _don’t you dare_ died on his lips. The sound of the balcony doors cracking easily shut Luther up. Ben hadn’t yet realized that tears, hot and thick, were sliding down his cheeks. His vision was blurred and the pressure in his head made it feel heavy and full, but he didn’t miss the way in which the cracks in the glass resembled a silhouette. No one dared breathe the air which had gone stale. 

  
“You’re right. We should get going.” Ben wiped his eyes, letting out a shuddered breath. “I’ll see you four at the next wedding or funeral.” And with that he was gone. Allison had tears in her eyes as he walked away, a coil of pure dread sat in her stomach as she stared at the tall, thin, shape now engraved in her window. None of them could have done it. 

  
“How did— how did Ben do that?” Vanya shook. She didn’t cry, but she looked on with the same mix of confusion and guilt as everyone else. 

  
“You heard the man: Four never left.” Diego polished off the pint he’d been enjoying before slinging his jacket over his shoulder. 

Two years later, Vanya writes a book about her family. _Extra Ordinary_ she called it. For some reason, she felt like it was the right kind of irony: a silly little play on words.   
She aired years’ worth of dirty laundry and hatred for the world to see, but her section for Four seemed to bleed into Ben’s. She never really knew how to separate the two.

  
_Four is/has been/will be/might/is yet to/ has always been dead. I couldn’t tell you what his face looked like, but I could tell you how he made you feel. His laughter would fill you up and make giggles spill from your lips, and his tears did the same. He somehow convinced you that skinned knees were as natural as never wearing shoes. We never figured out what his powers were, or at least I could never tell. As kind as he was, he was vacant. His eyes held no warmth and neither did his skin, it was as if one of his crooked smiles could send shivers up your spine._

  
_I don’t think it was his fault, though, that was all Dad. I think he used to beat him, considering the way he would flinch at the softest of sounds or the most gentle of touches. He had a way of looking through you that made you feel insignificant— like he was doing something far more important. My siblings remember him has the brightest ray of sun there ever was, they remember him as an angel. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t. He had nervous breakdowns and would scream all night long. He would silently sob at the dinner table before going to train with Dad._

  
_If I had to guess, I would’ve said he could tell the future. I went to him at times, when his fingers would press against his head so hard he would bruise, when he couldn’t tell where he was—or who he was. He would mutter things that anyone else would’ve thought were the writings of a man gone stark, raving mad. Names, jokes, dates, poems, locations, gore, lullabies, viscera, languages I couldn’t place: everything. He would speak to the room— never to you— and wail over whatever it was that he saw. I think he saw war. Or the apocalypse. God only knows._

  
_He was too hollow to care for anyone else, if he was capable of that at all. I never knew how to describe him, but the word came to me the other day: haunted. Number Four— Klaus, as his mother wanted him to be called— was haunted, and no one dared to save him._

  
_I think Ben was kind to Klaus in life, but he too was too empty to love. If any of us were to be family, the even numbers would’ve done it. Diego, Four, and Ben were the closest any of us children ever were. Ben’s grief I think became too much. He used to cry at night because he said he would see Four—in his mirror, in the windows— and he would say the same thing. “Dad won’t let him go.” He doesn’t remember this. I asked recently, I called him up and asked the dreaded question and he said no. Ben thinks Klaus is still alive, and so does Diego. Ben says they communicate, never talk, and that he’s as funny as ever. Dad was going to put him on antipsychotics when he ran away. Diego says he’s been saved by the unnatural while at work. A sudden falling picture frame would cause him to take cover, narrowly avoiding the bullet of a hidden gangster. An unusually loud footstep in an empty crime scene would bring him to a corner of the room where the most pivotal forensic evidence lay. He said once that he was chasing a criminal across a street one night and felt a hand on his ankle. He obviously tripped and fell— his fingers mere inches from the guy’s jacket— when a car turned the corner and his perp was suddenly roadkill. He walked away with a sprained ankle, and the belief in a guardian angel. He said the bruises on his ankle looked like finger prints and the_

  
_He was lucky. He was reckless._

  
_I can’t say the Hargreaves mansion wasn’t haunted, because I think it was. Klaus was too important to be wiped away in a night, and through our memories, the creaks of an old house turned into footfalls, and the hushed conversations of children through windows and walls sounded like laughter._

  
_The longer I think about it, the more I feel like Klaus never died. He never had a chance to live either; he’ll always exist as a statue in the courtyard. That’s all he ever was._  
_On late evenings when I’ve practiced my heart out and I could’ve sworn I’d heard the sound of clapping in the distance, I call it a day. If my music reaches the haunted boy with the vacant eyes and the smile that drove my brother insane, I would say it was a song well played._

  
_I just hope he’s happier than the rest of us._  
_I dread to know what he thinks of us._


	2. Melodies like Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben, much to his chagrin, is a substitute teacher. He’d gone to school and gotten his bachelor's degree in Comparative Literature (and Linguistics, and minored in Philosophy and Teaching, but he wasn’t one to brag) and realized he did not want to be a clerk at some legal firm. He put that minor to good use, and became one of the subs that New York was desperately crying for. 
> 
> To make a long story short: he hated his job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all,,,, this got surprisingly depressing. There are times in this chapter I wanted to stop and others where I couldn’t stop myself. 
> 
> I’ve updates the tags, please heed them.  
> Thank you for your support ;-;

_It was a big house for a lonely child; it was a big house for all of us. On days when Dad was away we would play hide and seek, and that big house would get just a little smaller. Somehow Four always knew the best hiding spots. If there was a game of tag to be played, let it be known he wasn’t the fastest player in the game, but right when victory was in sight he would slip away. He’d round a corner and vanish into thin air, or he’d pop out of nowhere giggling as he tagged you. He had problems with taking anything seriously— the reason Dad was always disappointed in him— but he took the house seriously. If we would insult the labyrinth of halls or the musty corners, he would be affronted on its behalf._   
_I always wondered what he saw in it._

  
— Vanya Hargreeves, Extra Ordinary, pg 210

  
Ben woke up to the god awful screeching of the alarm clock on his night stand, much like he did every day. He would turn it off with the malice of a man rudely awoken, and would soon set about readying himself for the day. It usually started at four in the morning, give or take, which is what he accredits his absolutely _novel_ moods to. He always gets dressed in the dark, but with all of his clothes being some variation of black, grey, white, red, jeans, or khaki he hardly ever messes it up. 

  
By the time his brain is fully functioning, and he’s checked the buttons on his collared shirt at least twice, he’ll stumble his way into the kitchen for something to eat. While the fridge is never barren, it’s not overflowing with food. On days like today— Tuesdays— he’ll cook one of those microwaveable breakfast burritos and chow. With a satisfied stomach and a presentable outfit, he’ll brush his teeth, check his hair, and somewhere between breakfast and getting dressed he’ll receive a call. 

  
Ben, much to his chagrin, is a substitute teacher. He’d gone to school and gotten his bachelor's degree in Comparative Literature (and Linguistics, and minored in Philosophy and Teaching, but he wasn’t one to brag) and realized he did not want to be a clerk at some legal firm. He put that minor to good use, and became one of the subs that New York was desperately crying for. 

  
To make a long story short: he hated his job. He hated the kids and the other teachers and the traffic and the getting up early, but he needed to do it. While he’d gracefully gotten his undergraduate degree, he was currently striving for his master’s. As much as he would’ve loved to funnel all of daddy dearest’s money into his education, it felt like using blood money. It was like a leash that kept him attached to that man and that house and that childhood. Ben wanted to be so much more. 

  
He would end up using the dreaded money to pay for college, but he’d use the money he earned from actually working to pay for his apartment and its amenities. It was essentially three rooms (and cramped as hell), but it was his. Sparsely decorated, save for the copious amount of rugs and hanging lights/ plants/ curtains, he thought he was doing alright. Books, instead of being on a shelf, lined the walls— floor to ceiling— in his living room-slash-kitchen. Incense burned on the counter, and there were at least a dozen mirrors scattered across the rooms. They varied in size and shape, but the full length one by the door seemed most loved. 

  
Music that Ben never turned on had started playing from the old record player in his bedroom at least twenty minutes ago. It would run itself out eventually, but the upbeat tune had the desired effect and brought some levity to Ben’s routine. 

  
“Let’s get going,” he said to the empty room. “We’re going to be late if you keep hanging around. Chop, chop!”

  
The sound of light footfalls crept from the window towards the door, a shadow seen passing by in every mirror until it settled beside Ben's image in the floor length one. It was taller than him, and mostly unrecognizable, but there was a head of unruly curls and a skinny frame. It approached the mirror, and a pointed nose and gaunt face came into view. When the figure breathed on the mirror it fogged up cold— frost clinging to the surface. He dragged his finger through the frost, and cut loopy, tilted cursive. 

  
_Did you like the song?_ It read. _Be honest._

  
Huffing something of a laugh, Ben gave him his honest opinion; he could never keep anything from his brother. 

  
“I wasn’t really listening. It was peppy in a good way— not quite that bubblegum stuff you had me listen to. I might give it another listen, but I wasn’t impressed.” 

  
The figure in the mirror paused, as if mulling over Ben’s words. A new patch of frost appeared, this time with the words _then what are you waiting for?_

  
Ben always wore a tiny smile when his brother was talkative, and lately he was buzzing with energy. He didn’t bother responding, only grabbing his jacket which hung from the door handle. “We’re taking the train today, Klaus, so stay close, lest you get lost again.” 

  
After locking the door behind him, he could’ve sworn he’d heard the sound of laughter following him down the hall. 

Teaching English to a bunch of seniors was nowhere near fun. He mostly just read out loud rules he knew the students wouldn’t follow and strongly urged them to do their work. Sometimes he’d have to play a video—some play or movie that somehow made it into the curriculum— but he was otherwise bored to tears. The students really didn’t care, with this being their last year and all: they were here for a passing grade and that’s what Ben was there for. 

  
“Good morning, Mr. Harris!” 

  
Ben always made sure to arrive as early as possible to his gigs, just to make sure he’d get everything going without a hitch. The worst possible thing was to be laughed at by a group of people not much younger than you over simple matters. They instantly respected you less, and he couldn’t have that. The overly chipper voice that pulled him from the lesson plans he was nose deep in belonged to Ms. Cindy. She was a blonde ponytail of a lady, swimming in knee length skirts with flashy patterns, and lipstick that was almost too red to be professional. She was young, too, just two years older than himself. 

  
“Morning, Ms. Cindy, long time no see.”

  
While most faculty would refer to each other by their first names, like any other civilized person, Kamilla Lucinda— yes, that was her real name— thought it was flirtatious to speak to him that way. Or at least, that’s the vibe Ben got every time she sauntered into the class, twenty minutes before students would arrive. You see, Ben frequently subbed at this school since the resident English teacher was pregnant, and somewhere deep into her third trimester. He was the only one who filled in the position, so he was expecting an extended job offer _very_ soon. 

  
Klaus had once told Ben that he thought she was nice. Simple, but nice. Ben could hardly stand her. 

  
They made small talk for a while, with her doing most of the leg work. Ben got a bit more involved when she brought up Evan McClair, who was the absolute biggest douche of the century. Before he knew it, there were students filing in, and Ms. Cindy was bidding him farewell. There were a couple groans about yet _another sub_ , and a few silent victories because _Mr. Harris is, like, the chillest sub._

  
Klaus liked the first period English bunch because he said they were the most entertaining. While Ben was sending emails and answering stupid questions behind the teacher’s desk, he was weaving between the rows of seats and listening. The boys in the back despised him because of the _numerous_ times he’d prevented them from cheating. A couple well placed knocks and a gesture in the mirror that lined the back wall would alert Ben as to who would be getting the Death Stare. The girls in the middle were horrible gossips, who talked about every kid, teacher, and scrap of news they could get their hands on. They also, according to Klaus, had the hots for him which was… admittedly very tiring. They were always looking at him when he wasn’t watching, sneaking glances and not so accidentally bumping into him in the halls. They also spoke amongst each other at a volume he could describe in no other way than loud. 

  
_“He’s so hot isn’t he?”_  
 _“Yeah. Did you see him coming in earlier? He had that leather jacket on and it was yum.”_  
 _“He’s fit too. When I tripped in the hallway, bumping into him was like hitting a wall of muscle.”_  
 _“Did you hear? He’s still in college. He’s only, like, twenty-three.”_  
 _“Ms. Cindy is totally pining for him, though. They’re always talking on hallbreaks, and last month I saw the two of them having lunch together in the courtyard.”_  
 _“He was laughing at her jokes, and her jokes are awful. His smile though: gorgeous.”_

It was the beginning of the school year, hardly even Agust, and they were already talking like this. Ben was sure one of these days he was going to lose it, especially if they offered him the extended substitute position. If it weren’t kids like Andy— the good ones— he would’ve quit months ago. She was mild mannered in a way that reminded him of Vanya, and was one of four kids in a very unusual family. She was quiet, finished her work on time, and felt comfortable enough asking him to critique her college essays. He was honored the first time she asked, and threw his heart and soul into helping her. She loved to read, and often shared intelligent thoughts about whatever it was they were discussing. She was his favorite, hands down. (Although Barrett Larson was a close second, he was just too self assured and reminded him of Luther.)

Ben’s instructions for today were incredibly simple: just let them work. Earlier in the week the students were tasked with selecting a newsworthy moment and narrating it. The class was looking at the complexities of realistic and historical fiction, and thus were to try their hand at it. Today was a work and research day, which meant Ben mostly got to sit back. Of course, he’d have to reign them in a few times when they inevitably got too noisy, but it would be an easy day.

  
He couldn’t have been more wrong. 

  
A petty argument broke out between the boys in the back and the girls in the middle, over what, Ben couldn’t quite make out, but it was starting to get out of hand.   
“Alright, what’s the matter? What are you arguing about?” If the room suddenly went quiet at the sound of Ben’s raised voice, he’d feel guilty about it later (and proud about it now). 

  
“Me and Jacob are both writing about the same event and he’s telling me that my narrative is wrong,” Sam whined. 

  
“Since it’s fiction, no one can be wrong.”

  
“Yeah,” Jacob interrupted. “But it’s not realistic! And we’re supposed to be making it as realistic as possible.”

  
All Ben could do was sigh. He never ceased to be annoyed by inane arguments these kids could get into, but it also annoyed him on a deeper level because it reminded him of when his family would get together. It took every ounce of self control he had, but Ben didn’t roll his eyes. “What’s your event? Maybe I could shed some light.”

  
“Remember when the Umbrella Academy first showed up? And they saved everybody in that bank?” Sam grinned. “I think it was The Rumor who beat up the most guys. She always had the coolest power!”

  
“No! It would’ve been a tie between the White Violin and Spaceboy! Didn’t you see the footage? He threw that guy through a window, and she knocked down, like, half the room!”

  
Ben’s blood was cold and beating the inside of his skull. The children continued to bicker, now a spectacle for the entire class, while Ben tried to regain control of his mouth. He changed his name for a reason. He wanted nothing to do with them, and absolutely nothing to do with what he had been forced to do. It took years of therapy, and the cool sensation of a shadow by his side, but he was finally able to come to terms with the monster that he (was and) used to be. 

  
Just because he could acknowledge that fact without spiraling, it didn’t mean he wanted to willingly talk about it. His therapist urged him to though. Jeanine, ever the angel she was, wanted him to be able to speak freely about it. Today he would make her proud. 

  
“Are you two done yet?” He drawled, feigning a look of indifference. When they shut their mouths so quickly their teeth clacked, every eye in the room was on him. 

  
“As someone who was just about your age when it happened…” _~~Not a lie.~~_  
  
“And as someone who saw it go down…” _~~Not a lie.~~_

  
“It was definitely The Horror…” ~~_Not a lie._~~

  
The rebounding chorus of _what_ and _no way_ would’ve been comforting if Ben wasn’t gripping the armrest of his chair in order to keep his hands from shaking. He wanted to blame the tightened in his chest on allergies— on anything but his own fear and shame— but he couldn’t. 

  
“Now, c’mon guys, back to work.”

  
The class snickered at the expressions both Sam and Jacob wore, but easily slipped back into the rhythm they’d had before. Ben focused on breathing easily and settling the restless feeling in his gut. He didn’t trust his voice to say much more, and desperately wanted to slip back into silence. 

He would spend the next two planning periods in the bathroom, washing his hands—trying to rid himself of the feeling of intestines and wiry muscle— and trying not to vomit— because _did you know_ the fat on the underside of skin is incredibly slippery and will just slide off if it hits you?

  
He will be subdued all day, and avoid Ms. Cindy at lunchtime. He’ll skip getting a coffee on the way home, and will crawl into the steaming bath at home, and just sit there. Even when Klaus tries to ask if he’s okay, scrawling on the dozens of fogged up mirrors, he’ll stay silent. 

  
He will cry. Silently at first, a solitary tear or two, slipping down his cheeks. They’ll quickly turn to ugly, chest wracking things that have him gasping for air long after the water has gone cold. Ben will bite his hand to try and muffle the high keening sounds escaping him, as he tries not to burden his neighbors. His sobs will only grow stronger when his chin falls to his chest and he catches sight of the puckered skin that is his stomach. It lays in a lattice of scars and ribbons that match his victims, should they ever be pieced together again. In his distress, his stomach will rumble and a tentacle will push against the skin. Ben isn’t able to stop the squeal that fills the air because _he doesn’t want to see this_. Screwing his eyes shut does nothing to escape the pain because in the darkness he’ll see the bodies. 

  
He vomits over the lip of the tub and all over the bathroom floor. He feels hollowed out and empty, but so, so full. He’ll never be empty, because the horrors will always be a part of him. When he starts to claw at his stomach, as if he could reach inside and tear them apart, a mirror will shatter. It’s Klaus’s way of telling him he’s serious. 

  
_Please stop._

  
It’s written over every pane of glass, covering all the letters written before. 

  
Ben will rip at his skin with increased fervor, his breathing erratic and uncontrolled. He can’t see what he’s doing anymore because the tears have taken over. Another mirror shatters, but Ben can’t stop himself now. He needs them _gone. He’s going to hurt somebody, he can’t control it, it’s agony, the horrors don’t care, he can’t feel his limbs anymore, he’s so cold, he’s so cold, it’ssocoldsomeonehelpmeplease._

Frigid hands will seize his wrists and pin them against his chest as Ben is enveloped in a hug. His voice will have gone hoarse hours ago, but he’ll still be gasping for air like a drowning man. The cold hands will hold him steady, rubbing circles on his back and breathing goose-bump inducing breaths down his back.   
  
_“It’s okay.”_  
 _“You’ll be okay.”_

  
He wants to move. He desperately wants to do anything besides sob and wallow and be rendered a spectator in his own body, but he can’t. For the moment he just breathes. The figure rocks gently and cards fingers through Ben’s short cropped hair, just like Mom used to do when the horrors were too strong.

  
Ben feels drained. He sits like a limp doll in the freezing bath, in the room that’s too cold, in an apartment that never pays for AC, in a building that’s always chilly. 

  
_“I’m so proud of you, Ben. You've come so far.”_

  
“I’m sorry.” 

  
He can’t tell if he speaks it or not, but the figure quiets. Soft humming fills the apartment, echoing through the bathroom as if it were made for this purpose only. It’s peppy in a good way— not quite the bubblegum stuff Klaus made him listen to once. It’s light and airy, and it dances like a memory. 

  
This time when he closes his eyes, he sees a courtyard full of children screaming with laughter. There’s mud on his socks, and Diego has a hole in his jacket. Mom has been mending Klaus’s jacket for the past ten minutes, the garment more holes than fabric, but he smiles nonetheless. She chides the boys for playing too rough, but that boys will be boys, and lets them continue to scuffle so long as they promise to be gentler. Vanya plays violin nearby and the leaves piled on the ground soar through the air as Luther and Allison dance together. Ben watches from the branches of the Great Tree, as Five dubbed it. He sits knee to knee with Five, both with books in their laps. Everything is painted in the sunset sepia tones of aged memories, but he watches the scene nonetheless. It plays on repeat in his mind as he drifts to sleep, his head resting on the figure’s shoulder. 

  
He misses the piercing green eyes that hold their own unshed tears. He’s not lucid enough to connect the spindly fingers in his hair to the ones that write crooked cursive on his mirror. He doesn’t recognize the timbre of the voice that whispered to him affirmations and promises between tears, because he never got to hear the boy who now owned it. Still dressed in his academy uniform, Klaus hugs Ben like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. He’s never been solid before, but the soft skin under his fingers still trembles, so he never lets go. He doesn’t know when it happens, but at some point he slips through Ben, like with most other things. Klaus will stay by his side even though he won’t ever be seen. Even though he usually visits Vanya or Diego while Ben sleeps, he refuses to leave. He can’t leave his brother alone. Not again. 

Ben comes to when his alarm clock blares in the other room. His head throbs as if he’d drank too much the night before, and his throat burns. At first he’s confused as to where he is and what happened the night before, but it all comes back to him with startling clarity. He remembered Klaus staying with him, the way his shoulder felt against his cheek, but he woke up against the cold lip of the tub. The water is vaguely pink, and there are scratches littering his abdomen, but at least now he can move. Despite the fact that his body is now shaking from cold (and he can’t feel his toes), he props himself up. There’s shards of mirror scattered across the floor; every mirror is shattered. It mingles with the now semi-congealed suck on the floor. It’s ridiculously convenient that his slippers—the kind with the hard soles— are tucked against the wall. With numb, aborted movements, he manages to slide them on and exit the bathroom. His robe is splayed across his bed and all he does is climb on it, too stiff to climb inside.   
  
He manages to turn off his alarm with his foot. 

  
No music plays this morning. 

  
It’s just past five in the morning and the first licks of sunlight stream in through heavy curtains.   
Ben’s phone rings. He answers. 

“Hey, Ben, it’s Luther. You need to come by the house today: it’s Dad. He’s not… he’s sick. He’s not going to make it. Everyone will be here. I tried calling last night but… please.”

Ben doesn’t speak. He revels in the silence. It’s warm. 

“Ben, please say something.” 

“Sorry.” 

He hangs up. 

Klaus would want him to go, for no other reason than to laugh in Reginald’s face. When he thinks about it like that, he almost wants to go. He rolls over gingerly, until the phone is pressed against his chest and his face is in the covers. The air he breathes is hot, and stale. If he tries really hard, the water drying on his back feels like a comforting hand. 

  
He knows that if he looks in any of the mirrors the shadow will be gone. Klaus won’t be there. Or maybe he will, and Ben finally lost it last night. It’s more comfortable to just not look. 

  
He doesn’t. 

He promises Klaus he’ll go to the academy today, but he wants to go back to sleep first. Ben closes his eyes and tries to remember the melody that dances like a memory. 

_I still believe that Klaus could see the future, but I know he did something else too. He knew too much to be that young. He wasn’t smart like Five or Ben, but he wasn’t inept like Luther or Diego: he knew five languages before he turned eight. He would say the strangest things sometimes. When there were too many words running through his head, and he’d say three different sentences at the same time— complete gibberish— he would write them on the walls. To this day, no matter how many times they re-do the peeling paint in his room, the carvings in his walls remain. On his ceiling, above his bed, you’ll see “It’s only a matter of time.”_   
_An eight year old without abilities wouldn’t have been able to reach that high. An eight year old without abilities wouldn’t have needed to tell himself that every night. He was, or still is, waiting for something. I’m scared to know what._   
  
_—Vanya Hargreeves, Extra Ordinary, pg 279_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you???? So much???  
> All of you have been beyond kind! I don’t think I’ve ever updated something so quickly in my life, nor have I written chapters this long. 
> 
> PLEASE feel free to drop your predictions below, or merely strike up a convo. I’ve bastardized a lot of stuff from the comics (and every supernatural cliche I know), so if anything is unclear let me know!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @vexfulfun


	3. Slanted, Cursive Writing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I! Absolutely! Despise! This! Chapter!
> 
> It’s given me endless heartbreak and disappointment, but it has been completed. If anyone wants to beta the last chapter(s) please let me know!
> 
> As always, thank you for the support. Sorry about the musty chapter :^/

_Have you ever waited for something that you knew would never come? You know that bitter feeling when you realize your mistake, but can’t bear to remedy it? That’s how I feel when I look at Ben. I expect to see the shy, no-nonsense boy I watched grow up, but instead I see the husk that he’s become. He went to school, which is more than most of my siblings could say, and frankly, he’s been in school longer than I. If he wouldn’t have raged at me over the topic of this novel (or exposé, as he’d rather it be called), I would’ve worked with him on it. His prose has always been far more lifelike than mine; I’m envious._

_I still see him every other week. We take turns visiting each other's apartments, and if there’s money to spare we might grab a bite to eat. I doubt we’ll go out for coffee together after this is published. He’s constantly tired, and drained in a way that not even Diego is, and that man gets no sleep or proper care. The life has been slowly draining out of him for years now, his never ending fantasy that Four is still alive, the equivalent of a bleeding wound. I think he’s going into shock. Klaus leached away every form of attention in life, and he continues to drain what’s left of my brother._

_Klaus, you already have Five. You’ve already got your real brother. You can’t have Ben, too._

_\--Vanya Hargreeves, Extra Ordinary, pg 255_

  
It’s a good handful of hours later when Ben startles awake. There’s no alarm, no buzzing of the phone against his chest; no one’s knocking on the door. It’s actually the light that wakes him up; a shaft of midday sun has slipped through the crack between the curtains and window and has situated itself across his face. He takes in a startled gasp, sitting up pin straight on the bed as he immediately surveys the area. Of course, he had no need to do so in the safety of his bedroom, but old habits die hard, and for just a moment he woke confused. Waking from a breakdown-- like the one he’d experienced yesterday-- was always the worst. 

  
Before he could stop himself he was already speaking to Klaus, “Hell of a night, huh?” in hopes of brightening the suffocatingly depressing mood. Those ever dark eyes found the series of tiny mirrors in the corner of the room-- the ones Klaus always tended to favor-- but saw no trace of his beloved specter. His chest deflated, the weight of the world back on his shoulders. Right. 

  
With his head clear and working the way it always ought to, he found the memories of the night before trickling back. Klaus, the ghost that he was, had never made himself solid. Becoming visible outside of glass and mirrors was _exceptionally_ difficult, and had happened only once (he’d done it to prevent Ben from walking into the bank, mid heist, where he inevitably would’ve gotten himself or others hurt). It was after taxing moments, like aparating, or talking for hours, that he would become tired. Breaking glass, moving objects, and manipulating things were all examples of things that drained him: Klaus couldn’t so much as show himself in a mirror for two weeks after the incident at Allison’s wedding. 

  
The carnage in his bathroom was evidence enough that he wouldn’t be seeing Klaus for a good long while. The fact that his hard bottomed slippers were by the bath (because he would never leave them in the bathroom), and that his robe was waiting for him on his bed (when he _obviously_ didn’t set it up ahead of time), were even more telling. If Klaus was able to do all of that and still have the energy to try and pull him from his stupor, Ben wouldn’t be seeing anything of him for at least two months. Probably four, if he was lucky. 

He wasn’t sure what happened to Klaus when he ran out of ghostly juice, only that he couldn’t communicate with Ben anymore. He had no idea if Klaus was still there or not, but he liked to believe he was. It made the bittersweet moments when he realized he was _actually talking to himself for once_ seem just a little less lonely. If he believed Klaus was still there, but unseen, the hole in his chest would hurt less.

  
Being without Klaus meant there was no one to play music or tell him the good day-time TV shows to play in the background of study sessions. He wouldn’t be judged for his monochrome ensambles or his frilly orders at the coffee shop. Ben would survive, though, he always did. 

  
He would play the last record that was on the player and set about cleaning up. Ben shuffled through the motions of putting on boxers and grabbing the rubber gloves he washed the dishes with. The dust pan wasn't forgotten either. He went about sweeping up most of the glass shards he could, avoiding the area around the tub, and picking up the fragments that got stuck in the grout. With the easy part taken care of, he got the rubbish bin and the entirety of the contents from under his sink, and slowly picked up the vomit. He drenched the area in chemicals and (careful of the glass still inevitably stuck inside) he wiped the area down. For good measure, he coated the area in extra disinfectant and let in sit. He drained the water from the bath and hoped the pink water wouldn't stain the porcelain. 

  
The record player scratched out a bluesy number that Ben found himself humming along to, despite his less than cheery work. A quick glance at his phone revealed it was just after one, and if he wanted to lord over Reginald with the audience Klaus would’ve wanted, he needed to get to the academy somewhat soon. He didn't bother with food, not trusting himself to stomach much, but also wanting to save room for the meal Mom would inevitably make. 

  
And while he wasn't in the mood to get himself all done up, if he was going to show his face, he wanted each and every one of his siblings to see him at his best. So he washed his face and fixed his hair, carefully cleaning his stomach with a wet towel, before deciding on an outfit. As he stared into the closet, he missed the sound of knocking, because Klaus always had something to say about what he wore. _Choose a color_ , he’d say, _wear something to show off the goods!_ It made him smile, and so for once he decided to oblige. 

  
He chose the bright red button up that Klaus had insisted he buy, and squeezed himself into the black jeans he thought were too tight (but _according to all the fashion magazines_ , Klaus would’ve said, _they do wonders for his ass_ ). The patent leather shoes that he wore exclusively for dates were next, as well as a pair of ash colored slacks. He would forgo the sweater vest he typically wore when he taught and the hoodie he wore on the street, and instead settled on his favorite leather jacket (of the three he owned). Klaus gave him hell for that too, saying he was no better than Diego at this point. 

  
It was two in the afternoon by the time he finished freshening up and taking care of the apartment. Some of the hanging plants had fallen last night which he was adamant about fixing, no matter the time it took to do so. 

  
As he hailed a taxi, he found himself rethinking the jacket which now seemed too warm for a sunny-almost-september-day. It was just warmer when he was alone, he told himself. It would cool down eventually, especially considering the academy was as haunted as his apartment. It was the same type of cold. 

* * *

“Are you sure he’s going to come? You said he didn’t sound very committed.”

  
“Well, you came, didn’t you, Vanya?”

  
The tension in the room was palpable, with the way Luthor was snapping at Vanya. Allison was quietly affronted, uttering a _hey_ on Vanya’s behalf (because everyone knew she wasn’t going to stand up for herself). Luthor’s icy tone made even _Diego_ raise an eyebrow. 

  
The clock read 2:28, and Luthor was giving Number Six two more minutes before he gathered the academy and went to see their father. Pogo had said that father didn’t want to be seen until the entire academy was present, but it wasn't worth it to make him wait much longer. Everyone had already been loitering around for over an hour, and Luthor hadn’t had the heart to tell everyone that Ben was-- essentially-- not coming. It burned him in a way that hurt his soul, because if Allison could catch a red-eye and get to New York from California with ample time, Ben could make the effort. He was, frankly, pissed that Ben was suddenly unreachable, and so distracted as to not give him the time of day. How hard was it to care? Ben may have hated father for his own (stupid, childish) reasons, but the least he could have done would be to support everyone else. They were all here, admittedly moved by something. 

  
“Look, I just… maybe we should get started without hi--”

  
“--Hello?”

  
Allison was in the middle of moving everyone along when Six busted through the academy’s doors. All eyes were on him in an instant, and the image was conflicting. Everyone was wearing black--Allison included-- because they were essentially attending a wake, but Six was wearing the brightest shirt Luthor had ever seen. He looked haggard in a way that put Vanya to shame, but at the same time seemed to be vibrating with energy. He was looking everywhere except at his family, as if he were searching for something they weren’t able to see. Typical. 

  
“Long time no see, little brother,” Two grinned. He actually put away his knife while crossing the room, and easily enveloped Six in a hug. It seemed too personal, and if Luthor’s neck heated at the embrace no one mentioned it. Luther hadn’t so much as heard a peep from Six in _years_ , and here was Two, practically tackling him with joy. 

  
He acted like the two of them were actually brothers.

  
“Now that you’re finally here, dad’s been waiting.”

  
Luthor didn’t breathe another word in Six’s direction before turning on his heel and heading towards the stairs. While he didn’t want to dwell on what the rest of his siblings were doing, he certainly didn’t miss the glare Six sent his way. Apparently they were on poor terms. Still. He couldn’t even remember what their last fight had been about, but that was Six for you: petty and childish. 

  
As Luther scaled the steps, Alison waved towards Ben before scampering after One, like the Three in her told her to do. Diego walked side-by-side with Ben, but not before complimenting him on his jacket (which led to him breaking out in an unprecedented peal of laughter). It echoed through the house and got a couple of dirty looks sent his way but his loose posture revealed he couldn’t care less. Vanya meekly said _hi_ , to which Ben merely nodded. 

  
Diego reacted poorly to Vanya’s novel, while Ben simply cut ties. Rumor had it, she tried to get in contact with him--for whatever reason-- and all he said was a page number; that was low, even by One’s standards. 

Ben was horribly uncomfortable. He felt like he was crawling out of his skin and that he was walking to his death. This whole thing felt like a horribly convoluted funeral procession, and when he reached the end he would be dead. His siblings who led the way, and made sure he kept pace, were his pallbearers, dragging him to the end. Ben was attending a funeral, and god, did it feel like his own. The path they cut led towards the infirmary, which inevitably held his greatest fear. 

  
His judge, jury, and executioner. 

  
His torment lay before him. 

  
Ben zoned out for most of the walk there, not bothering to get swept up in the old memories the house would obviously bring. He couldn’t help noticing some things though, like how every mirror, glass, and framed photo was covered. It was an old funeral ritual in some cultures, but Reginald wasn’t one for tradition. Ben was too busy imagining an extra pair of footsteps behind him. It gave him confidence.

  
So when every other sibling entered the room and Ben found himself getting stuck at the doorway, he listened for the disembodied footsteps that hesitated behind him, before entering the room. Ben followed, as if _he_ were the ghost in the relationship. Of course though, Klaus wasn’t really there. 

  
Reginald laid in a hospital bed, covers unceremoniously tucked around his aging frame. Seeing him sprawled like that in the darkness made him feel like he was seeing a god felled; Achilles’s heel had been found. The sound of his ventilator was the only thing that filled the room, otherwise a pinhead would’ve been earth shattering. 

  
“Children,” Hargreeves spoke, his tone paper thin. “With you all gathered, I wanted to have my will be read. There will be no squabbles, no disagreements, I will hear none of it. My decisions are final.” 

  
Ben certainly didn’t miss the statements that were thinly veiled threats, or the way in which his shoulders tried to cave in on himself when Reginald’s eyes landed on him. He could’ve sworn he saw a flash of uncertainty, as if he wasn’t expecting him to be there. The thought made the corner of Ben’s lips turn upward. 

  
Pogo stepped forward, materializing out of the shadows Ben hadn’t paid any attention to; they weren’t the kind of shade he was looking for. The grey hair that peppered his coat took him aback, because Pogo was another one of those infallible gods Ben couldn’t fathom being brought to their knees. But here they were. Here they all were. The butler cleared his throat, his eyes focused on the paper he held gently between his hands. It looked like he didn’t want to read it; Ben desperately wanted to know what could make the unflappable Pogo squirm. 

  
“I, Reginald Hargreeves, a resident of the state of New York, declare that this is my will; I revoke all wills and codicils that I have previously made.” Pogo adjusted his tie, hoping to give himself some more air to breathe. It wouldn’t help. 

  
“I leave my residuary estate to Number One, and sixty percent of my immaterial wealth at the time of my death.”

  
“I leave all training equipment to Number Two. I leave Grace, your mother, and the mainframe used to store her memory, to Number Two as well. I leave him ten percent of my immaterial wealth at the time of my death.” 

  
“I leave all of the vehicles to Number Three, as well as my property in Ontario, Canada.”

  
“Number Six, I leave you the contents of the library in its entirety— including all of my research.”

  
“Number Seven, I leave you all of the musical instruments and musical equipment. You are to receive ten percent of my immaterial wealth at the time of my death.”   
“All other remaining property, which would have been divided amongst Numbers Four and Five, is to be left to Number One. Should any beneficiary die within two months of my passing, I allot Number One as an alternate. Should he pass within two months of myself, all property being bestowed to him will be donated. I declare that I sign and execute this instrument as my last will, that I sign it willingly, and that I execute it as my free and voluntary act.”

The silence following Pogo’s reading was so horribly heavy that Ben felt like his shoulders were being pulled to the floor. If he were any weaker of a man, he was sure his knees would have buckled. It felt impossible to try and sort through the emotions coursing through veins because _of course_ everything that would’ve gone to Klaus or Five would go to Luther. _Of course_ Hargreeves would reward his loyal little soldier. 

  
He had the audacity to leave Klaus’s things to Luther, but never tell them where he was buried (if he was buried at all). 

  
Hargreeves’s eyes were watching him, Ben could feel the way they appraised his every move. What was he trying to say, giving _Ben_ all of his research? He only permitted Ben the truth after his death, that was it? 

  
If anyone couldn’t tell, Ben was furious. But what did he expect would happen? His other siblings seemed less riled, but still sorting through the information. To them this still felt like loss, something like the final nail in the coffin. For Ben it was the last straw. 

  
“Is that all?” He heard himself saying, his voice flat. He really shouldn’t have come. He knew this would be too much and he wouldn’t be as strong as Klaus wanted him to be. The way his siblings were staring at him (some of them open mouthed), apparently that was the wrong thing to say. In that moment, Ben didn’t particularly care. “Master Ben, what do you mean?” Pogo asked. 

  
“No disrespect, Pogo, but I wasn’t talking to you.” 

  
Ben’s heavy glare was focused on Reginald, who was wheezing away in his hospital bed. “You assembled all of us just to tell us this? What, are you allergic to a letter? Can’t have Pogo dial a phone for you now?” 

  
“Would you have answered?”

  
“A message would have sufficed.” 

  
“Don’t question me, Number Six, I—“

  
“You get off on controlling us, don’t you? Even now you—“

  
“Silence, Number Six!” 

Ben flinched, as did the rest of the room. Reginald spoke in the tone he reserved only for his cruelest of lashings. Whether it be the promise of extra training, meals that would inevitably be skipped, or verbal abuse, it always sounded the same. When Ben thought he was about to speak, he coughed, a deep and wet thing, and suddenly Ben could breathe again. He still felt like vomiting because of the fear running through his system, but he could finally inhale. 

“You have always been my greatest disappointment. You had so much potential, but you threw it all away with your delusions of grandeur.”

Ben didn’t know what to do. He felt like he was pinned against a wall, his body not responding to the messages his brain was desperately sending. He wanted to run away; get the hell out of that dark room with the covered mirrors and too-loud ventilator and the man he would’ve killed in an instant had he been a better brother. 

“Your brothers would’ve been disgusted with you and your weakness. Your selfishness and guilt have always been your downfall.” 

At that moment, he could’ve died because Reginald was right. He didn’t pay enough attention to Klaus when they were kids. And, yes, they were kids, but they were siblings! How hard was it to keep half an eye on someone? He never pushed back against Reginald, he never demanded to see Klaus’s body or grave. He was too weak. He didn’t care enough for Five when he was here, either. Maybe that was why he ran away? He probably couldn’t stand being surrounded by people who couldn’t bother to feign interest in his life. No one else had the capacity to care like Ben; it really was his fault that his brothers were dead. 

  
Reginald had told him this from the beginning. He didn’t want to believe him. He had to believe he was wrong. He _had_ to. If Reginald was right, it meant that Ben killed his brothers; it meant that Ben had really lost it and Klaus wasn’t real (because who would stay with the person who killed you?). Reginald has to be wrong. Ben wasn’t crazy. 

“You don’t get to talk about my brothers like that,” he said wetly, his chin to his chest. Some time ago his siblings fell to the side, Vanya being the only soul brave enough to approach Ben. She gently touched his shoulder, steering him towards the doorway, trying to get him out of the room. It was evident that something would happen sooner or later, and it seemed like she was the only one with the foresight to try and stop it. (Where was One when you needed him?)

  
“They were my sons too,” Reginald said gently, as if he’d never said words with such care before. If Ben thought him capable of it, he would though Hargreeves was about to cry. The bastard. 

“They were your soldiers!” 

Several things happened at once. Ben lunged for the bed—face red and eyes heavy— while Luther stepped between them. Allison and Vanya both froze mid-cry, while Diego tried to pull Ben back. His hands wound themselves into his jacket and pulled, but Ben just slipped from the sleeves. It sent Diego flying backwards with the force of his tug, and he bumped into the mirror that laid against the wall. Ben rounded on Luther—the impenetrable wall that he was— and tried desperately to push back against his form. All he did was let Ben hit his arm, letting him get no further. His outstretched arm ended inches from the foot of Hargreeves’s bed. “You never cared about them! All you wanted were more soldiers for your apocalyptic crusade!” 

  
Ben’s anguished voice was deafening, but he needed to say it. “You never even buried him! Klaus! We don’t even know how he died! You never gave a damn about them, or any of us for that matter.” 

  
He struggled in Luther’s grip for a few more moments before finally running out of energy. He slumped against him, face dripping with a mixture of agony and rage. “I hope this was what you wanted,” Ben rasped. “When you finally kick it, I’ll pray that your death was painful and that you were alone. Good riddance.” He’d seen it in a movie that Klaus made him watch one morning—some old western— and it had the effect he desired; he spit on Reginald. No longer being held back by One, he stepped away and stormed out. He didn’t bother glancing at any of his siblings. He didn’t have it in him to stare them down through leaking eyes. 

What he didn’t see, as he ran from the room, was what the rest of the siblings were staring at. It was quiet because the breath had been stolen from everyone except Ben, who’d had his back to the ordeal. When Diego slammed into the mirror he jarred it enough for the blanket covering it to fall to the ground. Vanya‘ s muffled sobs were the only thing breaking up the silence— even Reginald’s ventilator seemed to hush. The massive, twelve-by-twenty mirror was covered in scrawled words. 

_Don’t say that._

_  
Listen._

_  
Coward._

_  
Let me out!_

_  
Are you scared?_

_  
Don’t hurt them._

_  
I hope it hurts._

_  
Why are you doing this?_

_  
It’s cold._

_  
Do you want to know what it’s like?_

_  
Why is it cold?_

_  
I don’t want this._

_  
Why are you doing this to me?_

_  
I hope you burn._

_  
Find me._

_  
He’s not here._

_  
Don’t hurt Ben._

They were scratched into the surface of the glass, in crooked, loopy cursive. There were words written backwards, in various scripts and sizes. Some of them looked old and worn, others like they were fresh. The last one though, that was the one that was drawing eyes, because there was a figure standing next to it, still actively carving. The boy—because that’s what the figure was, a boy— was tall and almost ungainly thin. Their skin was shallow and papery, and stretched thin over bird bones. Their hair was a rat's nest of curls that looked like they hadn’t been brushed in years, and their eyes were so focused on their task that they didn’t even register that the blanket had dropped. He ran his nail against the back of the glass, scratching a line of emphasis under Ben’s name. 

  
He wore socks up to his knees with a pair of black shorts, a collared shirt, and the umbrella academy jacket. His feet were blurred and hard to see, but it looked like there was metal twisting around his transparent ankles. 

  
A particularly loud sound from Vanya pulled his attention from his writings and finally gave the group a good look at his face. Angular, boyish, and sharp, he was a pretty young lad. He looked too different to remember. He also looked solid. With every eye in the room on him, he seemed to recoil in confusion. No one dared move, not even the figure trapped in the mirror. 

  
“Dad,” Luther said quietly, tearing his eyes from the man. “What… What is this?” Slowly all eyes made their way to Reginald. It didn’t seem like he’d be speaking anytime soon with the spooked expression he wore. The figure then pounded on the mirror, the glass rattling in its frame. He hit it again, and again, and grew with intensity at each strike. It wasn’t until the bottom portion of the mirror spiderwebbed to the man’s fist that he stopped. He glance didn’t waver from Reginald, not once. He pointed with a bony finger, at a phrase that seemed to be one of the oldest:

_Let me out._

“Dad,” Luther started again. It seemed like he’d found his voice. “What is—“

  
“That... is Number Four.”

* * *

  
Ben didn’t care where his feet took him, so long as it was far, far away from that room. By the time he could see and he was breathing somewhat calmly, he found himself in the kitchen, with Mom rubbing circles on his back. 

  
“Any better?” She said gently, as if she didn’t know better.

  
It came out like a half choked sob, but Ben had laughed. “No.” She smoothed the hair against his forehead, fretting about every insignificant thing as a way of distracting him. When a warm plate of pancakes and a blanket around his shoulder didn’t help (not to mention that Ben downright refused a cup of tea), Grace realized there was no way to distract him from his sadness. She sat beside him and gingerly wiped a tear from his cheek. 

  
“How can I help you, my boy?” As robotic as Mom was, it was times like these where Ben knew she was alive. Robots didn’t get desperate or choked up, and they certainly didn’t care. All Ben did was sniffle in response, his face moments away from collapsing. 

  
“Where is he?” was all he said. “Mom, where did he go? Where did Dad put him?” His words were halted and mumbled through swollen lips. It felt like he could feel Klaus’s icy hand on his shoulder. The whispers in the back of his mind sounded like a voice he’d never heard. It felt like he was coming apart, but it had been a long time coming. 

  
“You know that I can’t tell you, honey.”

  
“He’s dying, Mom! You’re free! He—he can’t control you anymore.”

  
She wiped another tear from his face and sighed. Mom had never sighed in resignation before, nothing this human. When Ben met her eyes, he saw a sadness that he’d never be able to fathom.

  
“I wouldn’t be able to tell you, even if I knew.” 

  
She adjusted the blanket she had wrapped around him, pulling it tighter. She made sure it laid un-wrinkled across his shoulders before bringing his hands to hold it in place, and slowly stood, as if cornered by a vicious animal. Her gaze held something else in it now— an edge of determination breaking through. 

  
“I would never be allowed to tell you,” she said. _But that doesn’t mean I can’t show you._

Mom may have been a robot, but she was human enough to find the loopholes in her code. She was created to be a mother, not a tormentor, and this was how she would help her son heal. She’d been wrong to not show him sooner, but he hadn’t exactly been home much within the last decade. Ben seemed to understand what she was doing, and slowly rose to his feet. Grace merely turned her back, and started off towards the back of the house. Desperately, Ben’s mind tried to discern where she was taking him. They didn’t take the grand stairs, nor did they go to the courtyard; they went to the elevator. When they both were settled inside, she opened the maintenance panel and clicked the solitary button inside. Ben held his breath as the elevator jolted, and they started to descend. They were far deeper than the basement when the rig finally came to a stop, and Ben could feel the cold in his bones. He was thankful for the blanket Mom had wrapped him in, as if she always knew it would come to this. 

  
He didn’t wait for her to get off the elevator, because there was only one place to go. The solitary hallways lead to a single room: but room was a definition used loosely. It looked more like a bunker, with thick glass and metal bolted into the concrete. He rushed forward on numb feet, prying open the door. It felt like his blood was humming, but he attributed that feeling to the anxiety of what he imagined lay before him. This cell was supposed to be Reginald’s sad excuse for a crypt. For his brother Klaus. His hands were shaking too much to open the door, but that was okay because Mom was by his side, opening it with him. She was always strong. 

  
The hiss of the pressure seal on the door finally let Ben in, and it seemed like all the air in his lungs just disappeared. He was going to vomit again, he could tell. His knees shook with the effort to keep him upright.

  
Oh god, he couldn’t do this. 

The room was dark before the door was opened, but when it did, lights sprung on. Splayed out on a table was a cadaver placed somewhere in their early twenties. He had messy dark hair, glazed over green eyes, and a heart monitor that didn’t move. The corpse was waxy and pale, and weirdly enough, shackled to the table. Ben didn’t need to get any closer to know that it was Klaus. It looked like he had shoes made of iron on; they were attached with various locks and chains. It was fucking midevil. 

  
Ben was sobbing in earnest now, hardly able to breathe away the ache in his lungs, but Mom paid him no mind. She stoically approached the body and started pulling padlocks from chains until she was able to remove the ironclad boots. Nothing about what was happening made sense. Klaus was here this whole time? Why was he aged? Had he only recently died? Had Reginald _hid him_ from them? Why hadn’t Klaus told him before? What was Mom doing?

  
When Klaus’s feet were finally freed, the oppressive silence threatened to smother them. Ben’s hiccuping and silted footfalls were practically noiseless in the room. It stayed that way for minutes on end. It took an eternity for Ben to stand over Klaus, scared of what he would see. Considering everything, he looked at peace. There were bruises marring the left side of his face—ugly, purple-black-yellow things— but nothing else. Ben was building up the courage to reach out when the body in the table gasped and the heart monitor started to screech. 

Klaus screamed awake at 4:17pm on a Wednesday afternoon.

  
The Commission anticipated the apocalypse to occur at approximately 9:31pm that same night. 

  


_I sometimes wonder if Klaus is happy. In life, there was no way that he was, but I’ve always liked to imagine that he is. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t bleeding, bruised, or otherwise broken. Even my most fond memories of him have bandaged peeking out from underneath his collar. I don’t know what Reginald used to do to him, but I think he did it because he was scared. If Klaus has ever made it easy to love him he might have still been alive, but he was a monster to care about. Schizophrenic, all seeing, and self-mutilating: he wasn’t something a child could understand. Regardless, I still hold onto the childish hope that he’s happy. Simultaneously the most tragic and selfish child of us all, I’ve always given him my best. Wherever he is, I’m positive it’s better than this. If any of us were to truly see him again I just know they’d be dying. He was always the kid who’d wait for you at the door, so you wouldn’t have to walk in alone. Why would the back door be any different than the pearly gates?_

_Klaus Hargreeves—Number Four—I want you to follow one final order: don’t you dare come back._

—Vanya Hargreeves, _Extra Ordinary_ , pg 288

**Author's Note:**

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> 
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